


ATRAST NAL TUNSHA

by Angelavenger



Series: The Dark Melody [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, Captivity, Childhood Trauma, Creepy Uncle, Dwarven Carta (Dragon Age), Dwarven Culture, Gen, Mental Abuse, Murder, Origin Story, Original Character(s), cadash family, caves are nice, stuffed brontos are cute, thugs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-02 00:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5227448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelavenger/pseuds/Angelavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlotte may be the awkward and fierce Inquisitor today, but before that she was a Cadash. The Cadash family is cold and cruel and the depths hold many secrets. The origin story of Charlotte Cadash before she met her famous writer love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gift

**Author's Note:**

> AmandaP my awesome friend, did not write this story with me, but she did write a fantastic story about Charlotte. If you love Charlotte and her lover Varric or dwarves in general check out Unchained Melody the smutty/fluffy sequel to Atrast Nal Tunsha
> 
> As for me, this is my first creative writing in like 17 years so please be patient as i get into my jive. I have always loved the dwarves in dragon age (or any fantasy setting really lol) and feel they are a less popular, and less represented race in fandom then the humans and elves people love so much. When playing the origin stories in dao it was interesting getting to see their messed up society. I wanted my Charlotte to have an origin story too in the way of the origins characters. This is her origin story and I hope it will inspire more people to find the interesting and almost fairy tale quality that i feel dwarves have in dragon age.

If one were to speak of the Cadash family, they would invariably respond with Carta, or perhaps crime lords; if being very generous, they might say lyrium curators and delivery service. To all these things they would be correct, for the Cadash family is huge, with a network that runs both across the surface of the East Marches, and even broader among the Deep Paths. They were spread liberally across the land, with hideouts above and holes deep underground, like a sprawling spider web beyond the authorities reach.  To say they had their fingers dipped in many pies would be an understatement. Though they were known mostly for their lyrium trade, they had built an empire even greater than the Diamond Quarter Deshyrs and the Ambassadoria in Minrathous could ever imagine, providing food for the increasingly starving deep dwellers, rare artifacts, art, lyrium, and even a few rare (and certainly untraceable) cases of apostate stolen brides for some lower Tevinter nobles looking to get fresh, powerful blood for their breeding purposes. 

 

The Cadash family were as hard and cutthroat as they were rich and powerful, and none would dare their ire. The Dasher headed it with a stone heart and an obsidian fist. He had two daughters, Devika and Elena; beautiful girls who were as calculating and cunning as the Dasher himself. The family was prolific and widespread. To the Dasher’s fourth cousin, one time removed, was born a beautiful baby girl. It was said by some that the night Charlotte was born, the Stone itself thrummed with meaning. At this momentous occasion the Dasher’s fourth uncle, Firic Cadash, happened to be in attendance. 

 

Firic was an old dwarf, set in his ways, and many respected and feared him. He tended to his own business, pulling strings from behind, letting more imposing figures like his nephew dominate the limelight. He had come to discuss business with Charlotte’s father, and had not expected to be witness to some useless extended relative’s birth. Yet when he first laid eyes upon the wee baby Charlotte, he saw a shock of hair as red as the deepest lava flows, and smooth as a spider's silk. Her eyes seemed to pierce him,sharp for an infant’s gaze, orbs the silvery blue-gray of well forged steel. Pale and sweet, it was no exaggeration to say she was the most beautiful child (NO, being) that he’d ever seen! He was enraptured, mesmerized, and as he asked to hold her, he could swear, for the first time in his life, he heard the Stone sing. 

 

Firic returned to his home, but the image of the baby wouldn’t leave him. Ticking and ticking away in his mind, over and over in a loop, he heard the sound of the Stone, and watched the vision of the child he had held. It haunted him, growing like a pervasive flame in his blood. He had found a secret treasure that no one else in the family knew of, and he would make it his own, especially the song of the Stone; their very Mother singing so sweetly, almost resonating with his blood. If he could hear it, just a little more, he knew he’d grasp some kind of ancient wisdom beyond all others’ knowledge. He swore by his ancestors, and on the very stone, she would be his. 

 

In the following weeks, Firic visited Charlotte’s parents three times. Each time he’d offer to take care of Charlotte for them, promising greater and greater gifts. The first week, he came saying he would gift them a house on the surface, even greater than most humans lived in. He would see that she received the best nannies and tutors, and be quite well read. Charlotte’s parents, loving their daughter and wishing not to be parted from her, declined with great respect . The second week, he returned promising to raise her like a princess. She would have the finest silks, the prettiest toys, and the best learning that money could buy. She would want for nothing, if they would but let him take custody of her. Though very tempting, her parents could not bear to be parted from their new babe, and so twice, they declined. A third time he came, with gifts of gold and exotic sweets. He offered them a chance to buy into the Merchant's Guild, a task nearly impossible, so that they could go legitimate. He would take care of the child while they got their feet under them. He would return her to their care once they were settled in their new life. He swore it by the Stone. By this time, Charlotte’s parents could sense his desperation, and thus thrice did they refuse him. In fear for their little family, they packed their bags, hoping to find safety in hiding. 

 

Firic was not naive.  Through long years of experience, and mastery with dwarven politics and crime, he was very adept at reading people. He knew that he would never be able to convince his worthless cousins to give him the baby. He raged and ranted in his rooms, cursing and spitting with fury. How could they be so selfish? Couldn’t they see he merely wanted the best for her? Couldn’t they see he had more to offer for her future and protection than they ever could? Why would they doom their only child to a life of mediocrity and poverty when she could live like a princess? Such selfishness was disgusting, and it was only right that he, as a grand patriarch of the family, take matters into his own hands. He did not think himself a cruel man, although he would readily admit to being quite pragmatic. This was for a young child's future! He could not do any less then make sure she received the generous and selfless care that only he could give her, no matter what the cost might be. 

  
And so it came to pass, that on the very eve that they were poised to flee, Charlotte’s parents were visited by some very unsavory types. Broad and mean, with stark brands on their faces, the brutes fell upon them like a quiet mist, leaving no evidence of foul play behind. No one knows what manner of violence was visited upon the small family that night, but no bodies were ever found. Charlotte’s parents disappeared without a trace, never to be seen or heard from again. Left alone in her cradle, they found Charlotte quietly grasping in her hands a kerchief her mother had painstakingly embroidered. Each stitch was carefully and expertly set into the cloth.  It read: ATRAST NAL TUNSHA. The solemn farewell clutched in the babe’s hand was a cruel irony, for it meant, “May you always find your way in the dark.” That night, Firic, in his kindness, took the poor orphaned child into his care. The family gossipped about the generosity she was receiving, and  what a lucky girl she was to have not been left in the Deep Roads, unlike the many orphans before her.


	2. The Bad Bad Man

Firic was as good as his word. Charlotte was given her own room in his home in the deeps. She was given an elaborate cradle, and later, a bed made from the finest metals and stone, carved with beautiful runes of protection and warmth. She had pretty dresses with embroidery and ruffles.  She had dolls, toys, and even a little stable, populated with mini, stuffed brontos. On the walls hung large carved scenes of fanciful dwarven heroes and exotic looking thaigs, bustling with villagers about their castely duties. She had a round table, with chairs carved from stone, for her to eat meals at or play. She was even gifted a pretty filigree escritoire, all the way from colorful Orlais. It had dainty curled feet, and on its fold-down cover was a soft pink oval, dusted with a ballerina silhouette. Charlotte did her studies here, but more often than not would outline the ballerina with her stubby little fingers, and daydream of dancing on clouds. Her most precious treasures, however, were the two hulking book shelves, formed in geometric patterns against the walls, filled with books from all over. She had books of all types: from educational manuscripts on ores and mining, to daring murder mysteries and fairytales. A big, plushy, deep cushion lay near them, and she’d sink into it each day and read for hours and hours. 

 

As a wee babe, she was cared for by a hired nurse maid, but soon as she was weaned, Firic turned her over to the only person he could trust completely: a thug who had worked with him since they were children, who was as fiercely loyal as he was dangerous. He was known as Dirty Shanks, for he kept two wicked daggers that were rusted to such a degree, that if one was cut by them, you were as likely to die from infection as you were from blood loss. Shanks, as he was known by his friends, was asked why he kept his weapons in such disrepair. He would respond that it was more intimidating to see rusty, blood stained blades than clean ones. He wasn’t wrong. 

 

Now, for a rational person, Shanks was not what one would think of as the “first choice” for baby care.  Charlotte, having been described by Firic in glowing terms of endearment, looked like a little, wrinkly, pug-nosed stink machine to him. Not that he’d ever say so to Firic; he wanted to keep both his testicles, thank you very much. Having been walked into the room, handed the little nugglet, and abandoned had left him utterly at a loss. He held her out at arms length, taking stock of her. No amazing song or revelation hit him. No impression of lasting beauty. She was just a little, pink, delicate thing. 

 

“Oy,” he thought to himself, “I’m really going to have to make sure not to squash this wee thing.” 

 

It was right then that Charlotte cooed at him sweetly, smiled like an angel, burped twice, and proceeded to throw up all over him. The ability to projectile vomit at arms length suitably impressed him, for she managed to not only hit his face, but cover the entirety of the front of his tunic. She reminded him of his cousin Lenny after being a dead drunk mess, and he felt a surge of fondness. Shanks was surly and stout, but grew very fond of Charlotte. He would sneak her little treats he stole, usually laced with a bit of liquor, and though not very demonstrative, he always made sure she had what she needed. Every night at bedtime Shanks would tuck her into her covers, and make sure she had her little kerchief and favorite stuffed bronto named Snug. 

 

“Atrast nal tunsha, glow worm.” he’d say fondly, before blowing out the lamp.

 

Once she was old enough, Charlotte would reply, 

 

“Atrast Tunsha, bad man.” 

 

He earned this nickname because he would always say:

 

“You better eat your slop, or the bad man will get you, and I’m the bad, bad man.” 

 

Saying this, he’d scrunch his face up, hard and funny. She would giggle and chant, “Bad man, bad man!” while banging her plate of peas on the table. 

 

Whenever Firic was home he set a very tight schedule for the evening. She would be fed and washed, then dressed in her nicest clothes and brought to the main rooms of their cavernous abode, to spend time with Uncle Firic. Whether he was reading or writing, there was a little chair set for her near him, where he could look upon her as much as he liked, and occasionally stroke her hair.  When he was that close to her he could hear the Stone thrum, and if he stroked her hair, or let her grasp his fingers in her little hands, he’d even be able to make out a subtle tune. To Firic, she was a treasure, not family. She was to be kept quiet while in his presence; therefore, a  rickety stool was placed near her for Shanks, bored and waiting. Any time she would cry or make noise, it was up to him to shush or placate her so that Firic would not become annoyed. Every night, like clockwork, Charlotte became accustomed to presenting herself before her daunting old uncle, but was never allowed to speak, nor ask questions of him. To say, “Good evening, Uncle.” was all that was approved or required. If asked questions she was allowed to answer, but it was often merely a token inquiry into her studies, and if she had everything she needed. Thus, she’d sit for several hours, staring into the fire,  daydreaming, dressed like a doll, with her uncle stroking her hair or cheek, or going about his business, happy merely to have her there as a silent presence beside him. Often Firic was gone for family business, traveling all over for the Dasher.  Charlotte cherished these times. . She was given much more free reign by Shanks to dance and play and be loud or messy. Mostly, she’d spend her time reading and daydreaming. She had no contact with other children, but between Shanks and her books, she was, for the most part, quite content. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have a full outline for this story, but being new to writing, it might take some time to get out. Any and all kudo's/comments and support is super appreciated and will go towards the motivation to keep spinning this tale. <3 Angel <3


	3. The Pet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte is becoming too curious and Shanks needs to find a way to distract her. Charlotte has her own ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild warning, this chapter gets a little dark. There is mental abuse as well as captivity, which have been added to the tags.

Upon reaching the age of ten, Charlotte began to question things. She wondered why the stones thrummed, or why ballerinas always seem to wear pink. She wondered about pretty much everything.. Daydreaming and pondering, she’d ask Shanks all manner of questions.

 

“Bad man, why are the rocks gray?”

 

Shanks would reply, “Ancestors damned if I know. Do I look like a shaft-rat to you? Grubby shit, eat your damn food and stop lollygagging.”

 

“Bad man, why does Uncle Firic always stroke my hair?”

 

“He does it to make sure you are healthy, and that the strands are kept fresh and untangled. Stop fidgeting and let me finish brushing this mop on your head, or I’ll get a right tongue lashing, ya hear!”

 

“Bad man, why am I never allowed to go outside? I want to explore the caves and become a great fighter like you!!”

 

“It’s dangerous out in the caves. There are monsters, ghosts, darkspawn, and bad, bad men, even worse than me. Plus, you’re a woman folk, and when you’re older you’ll do women folk type stuffs. I see that look on your face, and before you ask, NO! I don’t know what stuff women folks do, but when the time is right I’m sure Firic will find someone to explain it to ya.” 

 

What started as inquisitiveness became a strong, perhaps obsessive, curiosity. The more questions Charlotte asked, the more evasive and repetitive Shanks  became. Exhausted by her constant haranguing, and worried by her mention of wanting to explore the caves, he begged her uncle to find a diversion for her, to keep her from becoming too much to handle. This request left Firic extremely annoyed. 

 

“I pay you a very healthy sum to handle things like this, Shanks. I am a busy man and cannot be expected to solve all the problems you are being paid to deal with.” was Firic’s reply.

 

Therefore Shanks, not being the most learned man, dealt with it the only way he knew how. He got raging drunk. This might not seem like the wisest or most practical decision, but Shanks would tell you that all his best ideas came from two places; when he’s raging drunk, or when he’s on the toilet. He decided if he combined these two exercises, he’d surely come up with his biggest idea yet. So it was, while staring at the blurry wall dropping a few, he realized the answer to his problems. Exercise! When they trained new recruits to become enforcers, they’d work them till they were piles of sweat and tears, and could barely say anything, much less a curse word. 

 

The next morning, after her breakfast of steamed mushrooms and a delicious moss sauce, Charlotte found herself face-to-face with a bad tempered, hung-over Shanks, sporting a strange whistle as rusted as his two daggers. He handed her a set of clothes, dingy and covered with patches, that looked to be his size. Shanks rolled up the sleeves and pants and tied them in place, with an extra tie on the pants for good measure. Wouldn’t want her pants falling in the middle of it all. He sized her up and down and said,

 

“Oy, you said you want to be a warrior, so you’re going to prove you got what it takes, glow worm. Now, when I blow this whistle, you’re going to run 5 laps all the way around the great dining hall, ya hear!”

 

The prospect of something so new and exciting was exhilarating to Charlotte! The first lap, she felt like she was going such a speed she could take flight. The second lap, she was already dreaming of her many heroic feats just around the bend. By the third lap, however, she thought she might be dying. She begged Shanks to let her stop there, in between gasping breaths, but he just whistled and yelled,

 

“Do you want to be known as a nug-snuggler, glow worm, or as a sodding ass kicker?! Get your butt in gear and run those laps!”

 

When she finally finished her last lap she was heaving, but there was a giant grin on her face. Shanks slapped her on the back and gave her a drink, and a small candied chocolate for good measure. In the quiet that followed, as she collapsed at her table for her studies, Shanks patted himself on the back. This, indeed, was his greatest idea yet! 

Soon, in addition to laps, all kinds of exercises and games for strength training and reflexes were added. He’d do a game of keep away with Snug or her favorite book, each time blaring a sickening toot on his rusted whistle when she was finished. If she won, she was rewarded with extra reading time, or one of his special, slightly edited bedtime stories about his time as an enforcer. Yet no matter what exertions the day brought, by evening she was washed up as if they’d never happened stuffed into one of her dresses, and trotted out for Firic, to be stroked and crooned over. He’d call her his treasure, or his princess, and even sometimes brought gifts of taudy baubles one would expect grown women to receive, like perfumes, jewels, and overly ornate clothing from all over the East Marches. She would accept them all in a golem-like torpor, always replying with the expected, “Uncle, you are too kind.”

 

When Charlotte turned eleven, her curiosity blazed brighter than ever. Knowing Shanks better now, she stopped asking him directly about things. Instead, she would ask for specific books to be brought to her, which she would then read voraciously. If her Uncle seemed in a particularly good mood, she could convince him, in her sweetest voice, to tell her about some of his “great” exploits or business ventures. He would describe the surface world and many places that sounded exotic, like Ostwick and Starkhaven. She started to spend time searching their cavernous abode, to see what secrets she could find. The more she explored, the smaller the home began to feel. Though the caverns were broad and tall, and their home had many rooms, they were all so familiar. She wondered about the things she’d read, and the stories she’d heard from Shanks and Firic, and desired to know more. 

 

One night, when it was very late, Charlotte decided to test herself. Firic was away on business, and Shanks was passed out in a drunken sleep. She tiptoed from her room, in her silken nightdress and soft slippers, quietly creeping through the darkness. The house thrummed in the background, and she felt like the stone walls were breathing. Tense, and nervous of being caught, she imagined eyes watching her from every corner.  Padding softly from room to room, there was no noise except the soft moving fabric of her night dress, and her own shallow breathing. She crept forward until she found herself at their front doorway. It was such a big, heavy, solid door; the barrier to protect their home, but also to lock her in. It was hard to look at the monstrosity without some ambivalence. She opened the door quietly and peaked outside. Before her lay a long dark path, lit by a torch hanging from the wall. It descended into a winding darkness. Charlotte was so nervous and excited; her heart beat like a drum, thudding so loudly she could hear it in her ears. Slowly, as if for fear that any moment something would jump out and snatch her, she reached her arm past the threshold, all the way to her shoulder. Touching the air outside and seeing the play of shadows over her hand excited her. So overwhelming was the experience, she began to become light headed. Shanks rolled over and snored more loudly in his sleep, and she startled like a doe, quickly yanking her hand in, closing the door, and rushing back to her room. Under her covers, she hid with her Snug clutched tight against her chest. Breathing in pants of exhilaration and fear, she dreaded that, somehow, they’d know what she had done. However, she was elated with this new test of herself, this new secret that was hers alone. She treasured it closely, and daydreamed of what could lay beyond that narrow, lighted hall. 

 

That night, Firic returned home from his business. Though yearning to see that dark pathway again filled her, she was too afraid to dare it while her daunting and doting uncle was present. That evening, emboldened by her euphoria, she asked Firic if she could go with him the next time he left to visit family or do business. Firic stared at her for a moment with his penetrating gaze. Gently, he cupped her cheek, tipping her head to look up at him, almost to the point of straining her neck.

 

“Princess, you are too precious to risk going out. Our family is full of dangerous people, and in return we have many enemies. They would visit upon you such pain that you would wish for death, if they didn’t kill you outright. They would hurt you to get to me. You don’t want to be my weakness, do you salroka?” 

 

Eyes watering with disappointment, and feeling like jagged rocks had settled in her stomach, she replied, “No Uncle, I don’t want to be your weakness.”

 

He tightened his grip on her a little, almost painfully, and then smiled his most patronizing smile. “That’s what I like to hear, princess.”  He released her abruptly and gently stroked her hair behind her ear.  “Let me hear you say it again.” 

 

“I don’t want to be your weakness.” she said woodenly. 

 

“Good girl, Charlotte.” 

 

With a final smirk, he patted her cheek and returned to his study without so much as a backwards glance. Charlotte found her way to bed, no longer able to hold back the tears. She felt so guilty, but also so frustrated.  Why can’t I go? Shanks is allowed to leave. Why is he not a weakness?  Musing upon these things, the frustration kept building in her, until it reached such a point that she could barely see in front of her, and she threw Snug across the room. Burying her face in her pillow,  she screamed and screamed until her voice was ragged. In an exhausted heap, she passed out. 

 

That night, she told Shanks she was too sick to come to dinner. Once everyone was asleep, she made her escape.  This time she held Snug in her arms like a shield.  She found herself once again before the large front door. Facing it like it was her enemy, she glared it down, opened it, and stared out into the darkness, thinking,  I’ll show them. I’m a fierce warrior, like Shanks. I’m not afraid.  Closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, and squeezing her Snug, she stepped over the threshold. There she froze, waiting for someone to yell, or, she feared, grab her. Her heart was beating like a frantic drum. After nothing happened, and her heart came down to a normal rhythm, she opened her eyes, and took another step, then another, and another, until she was at the end of a long hallway. A fierce and triumphant grin spread across her face, one that, in later years, people would recoil from as she fought creatures and men three times her size. This hallway would not get the best of her.  Her fear would not get the best of her. Her uncle would not get the best of her.  This she swore to herself, on the Stone and all her Ancestors. She declared to the darkness, before her Atrast Nal Tunsha, defiantly, I WILL find my way in the darkness. This was her promise to herself.

 

It was after this defeat of the darkness that she found herself turning twelve. She was confined in what now felt like a prison, not a haven, and found many small ways each day to take some semblance of control back in her life. Sometimes she would sneak food from the kitchen that she wasn’t allowed to have, and greedily eat it up before anyone could take it from her. Other times, she’d get back up after they’d put her to bed and read or exercise. When Firic was away, she would return to the dark hallway just outside their home, taking a few more steps each time. She would snatch little coins, when no one was paying attention, and hoard them, storing them in an old book with a carved out center, where no one would find them. 

 

One night her uncle was petting her hair, remarking how much he loved the long, silky, wavy strands. It was lovely and long, all the way past her knees, and shown a deep, beautiful crimson. That night, she slunk into Shanks room while he wasn’t paying attention, and stole his shaving blade. She chopped her hair off, short as she could without cutting her scalp.  Watching the thick red strands fall to the ground, her heart felt lighter and free.  That’s when Shanks came upon her, standing triumphant in the middle of a red circle of her freshly shorn hair, gripping his razor.  He almost screamed in shock.  How could his glow worm do this ? 

 

“What have you done to yourself, lass? Dontcha know your Uncle is going to have a fit?!”

 

Charlotte turned to him and curtly replied “It’s my hair Shanks.  Why should Uncle Firic care what I do with it?”

 

He gently took the blade from her. “Sorry glow worm, can’t hide this from him.”  He continued muttering to himself,  “Hey it’s just hair. It will grow back…. probably…..HOPEFULLY. “ 

 

He brought her before Firic’s study, telling her to wait outside. Before a quizzical Firic, he tried to soften the blow. 

 

“Oy, Glo...um, I mean, Miss Charlotte has had a bit of an accident. It’s not that big of deal, but is a bit…..uh….shocking. Just remember, it’s not permanent.” 

 

Slowly, he opened the door, unveiling what she had done. Firic stared blankly, as if he were seeing a mirage he could not make sense of. Steadily, it penetrated his mind that his Charlotte, his treasure, his beautiful pet, was this bald, defiant creature standing before him. He was overwhelmed by a burning rage he had never known in his life. Grabbing her by the arm with his strong bony hand, he dragged her from the room, pulling so harshly he almost ripped her arm out of the socket, leaving bruises from his grip.  He threw her before his bathroom mirror, shouting,

 

“Look at yourself! Who do you think you are?” Shaking her fiercely, twice, he continued, “You look disgusting!” and pushed her away as forcefully as he could. 

 

She stumbled backwards, violently falling on the stone bath and against the wall. She was shocked;  this was the first time she’d ever been handled so roughly.  Dazed, she sat there unable to react, until she felt the soft edges of her mother’s kerchief tied around her wrist.  She remembered who she was. She looked him in the eye and with a savage shout she yelled,

 

“I am Charlotte Ilona Astyth Cadash, and you have no power over me!” 

 

Proud and defiant, on the ground looking up at the uncle who towered over her, jaggedy bald patches on her head, and bruises on her arms; she was more glorious in that moment then Shanks had ever seen her be before.

 

Firic looked ready for murder.  Luckily, instead he turned sharply on one foot and rushed from the room, a stormy cloud in his puffy, flowing tunic. Hearing the door to his room slam shut, Shanks and Charlotte slumped with relief. Charlotte, overwhelmed by all that had occurred and losing her thread of confidence, collapsed, sobbing. Shanks ran to her, and, kneeling on the ground, took her in his strong arms and crushed her against his dirty ragged chest. Clutching tightly to him, she sobbed and wailed incoherently while he coddled and softly rocked her, stroking her freshly shorn head and telling her it would all be okay.

  
The next night, Firic gave Shanks a long, thick, velvet robe with a giant hood. He told him to have Charlotte put it on before coming down. She was told to wear it at all times around her uncle, so he would not see her shorn hair or defiant expressions. Unlike before, where Firic would stroke her cheek or hair or talk at her like a beloved puppy, he had set a chair away from him facing a wall. He had her sit there and ignored her, wanting to hear the Stone, but not wanting to see the mess she had made of herself. From this night on, nothing was ever the same for Charlotte again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What people still reading this? You people are the best! All kudos and comments are super appreciated and feed the beast lol.


	4. Dirty Shanks is a filthy liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to fall apart for Charlotte and Dirty Shanks.

Shanks had secretly stolen one of the tresses from the floor and made a little rough braid from it. He didn’t know why he’d done this, thinking it would make a nice good luck charm perhaps, or he just needed something to remind him of his Charlotte, from before that night. He’d cleaned up the mess and made sure Charlotte's wounds all received ointment. Stuff smelled worse than a fat Deshyr’s arse, but he knew very well how it helped with bruises and stinging cuts. He’d tried his hardest to get things back to normal, but between Charlotte and Firic both being such stubborn asses, so full of resentment, and his own tongue-tied lack of diplomacy, all he’d managed was to make things more awkward.   
Life never gets easier, does it?, he thought with a sigh. All he knew was that his Charlotte had been brave and beautiful, even if her hair was gone, and that he would do anything to protect her.

The night felt cold and the caves were damper than usual. It was as if heavy doldrums had settled upon their home; even the lights flickered in and out under the weighted gloom. It was a real shite night, and the best way to handle a real shite night was, of course, to get drunk. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about how Charlotte’s hair had looked; long, curly, a vibrant deep red. It never hit him how much he’d grown to care about her. Yeah, she was an ugly, stinky baby before, but she grew up into such a funny, scrappy little pixie.   
He’d never considered himself more than just a caretaker. Yet this awful, soul-wrenching worry in his bones told him it was more than that. Had he ever cared about anyone or anything this much before? He couldn’t think of a single instance, especially not his noble-hunting bitch of a mother, who’d left him in a corner of Dust Town to fend for himself when he was merely 8 years old. Good thing he’d been a quick learner when it came to pickpocketing, or he’d have right starved in that steaming pile of bronto dung they call a town. Glad he was that he’d never heard nor seen his mother again after that day.

The clock ticked on and the evening grew late. Firic was rustling around somewhere in the other room like a squirrel. Shanks was getting far enough into his cups he could barely see straight, and it felt like a good time for a snack. While in the kitchen foraging for something easy to put in his gullet, he heard a furious roar. Too drunk to make out what it was, he came charging into the room, thinking some beast had entered their home. Instead, he found Firic and Charlotte facing off. Ugh, why now, when I was finally getting a good buzz?

Firic towered like a vengeful god of fury, his tall hat and billowing robes making him an even more intimidating figure. In his hand was one of Charlotte’s books, and before this towering, dwarven rage was his little glow worm, no longer defiant, but terrified.. She’d never seen Firic so furious, never been yelled at in such a way before; Firic looked like he was going to bludgeon her with her own book.   
Wild eyed he screamed,

“You dare steal from me?! Me, who took you in when no one else would?! Me, who gave you every comfort a person could dream of?! HOW DARE YOU?!” 

He threw the book at her and, hitting the ground in front of her, it flew open. Gold coins, which had been hidden away inside, exploded everywhere, pelting them all.   
Shanks may have been drunk, and a bastard, but he was able to piece together what was going on. With almost primal instinct he threw himself between them, yelling to Firic,

“Oy, I know it looks bad sir, but I swear I was only taking a little. It’s for my mum, you see. She’s right sick, and I just thought if I hide away a bit at a time, I could afford to take her to a nice doctor.” 

Firic stared at him unmoving, his face a mimicry of stone. Charlotte looked stunned, staring wide-eyed like a deer. All around, the tension built in the silence. The old grandfather clock ticked and ticked in the background, echoing in the cavernous chamber. 

“GET OUT!” Firic finally bellowed. “You think I don’t know that you’ve been filling her head with aggression? It’s your fault she’s become untamed! You disgusting, ignorant fool of a drunkard! I should never have given you a chance to be more than a lackey enforcer. Your thick meat head was never good for anything anyways! You’re fired. Get your things and leave. Get OUT NOW!” 

The fury was palpable. Shanks tried to reason with Firic; Charlotte sobbed, begging and pleading that he not send Shanks away, to no avail. Charlotte tried to tell the truth, to say that the coins were hers, that it wasn’t Shanks’ fault, but it was too late. Nothing could change her uncle’s mind..

Dirty Shanks may have been drinking all night, but now, he felt completely sober; so sober, in fact, that a drink might never be able to help him forget anything again. His limbs heavy, and his heart broken, he gathered his meager belongings together. Firic wouldn’t even allow him one last goodbye to his little glow worm. He held her braided lock of stolen hair, and for the first time in his life, he wept.

Charlotte was devastated. Guilt pricked her like a knife. It was her fault that Shanks was being put out in the cold; her temper, her defiance, and her theft. Yet, there was nothing she could do. The feelings of futility and frustration choked her. She cried until her face was swollen and red, till her eyes burned, and then she cried even more. Eventually, in pure exhaustion, she fell asleep. 

In the days following Dirty Shanks’ forced departure, Charlotte was kept to her room. Food was left for her by a servant. No matter how she begged or pleaded, the servants would never tell her anything of what was going on, nor where Dirty Shanks might have gone. One night, she snuck out to see if she could find any clue to where he might be. Instead, on fine paper in flowing writing, she found a letter on her uncle's desk to a cousin's mother, inviting her to come and “train” Charlotte to be a fine lady. He was also offering her quite a substantial sum of gold.   
Charlotte felt sick. She didn’t want some scheming, gold-digging aunt to come care for her. She wanted her Bad Man. He was her true family and could not be replaced. Still, no matter how much she searched through Firic’s papers, she found no mention of where Shanks might have gone. She did, however, come across an old map of the Deep Road paths their home bordered, and quickly snatched it. Pocketing it, she returned to her room before Firic or the servants awoke.

Seething, and trapped like an animal, she was pacing her room the next day when the beginnings of a plan started to form. She would hurt Firic the way he had hurt her. She would go find Shanks, and live with him, out in the world. Perhaps they would be mercenaries together, or he could teach her to steal. Either way, she knew she could not live in her gilded prison any longer. She dressed herself in the grubby clothes Shanks had given her for exercise and wrapped up her lunch in a kerchief with what few coins Firic had not found. Into the kitchen she silently tread, quickly rummaging through a bin of medicines. She nabbed a dark purple glass bottle, remembering Shanks had used to give her exactly 1 spoonful of the liquid within to help her sleep when she was little. She looked around to make sure no one was coming, and quickly poured the entire bottle into the soup pot that was bubbling on the fire. Then, fast as a mouse, she scurried to her room to wait for everyone to eat their supper and, hopefully, find deep slumber. 

When the house became still she went in search of her prey. First she went to the study, and took the lovely dagger that Firic kept there in a glass display case. She then went to his room and pulled out every single robe and piece of clothing that he owned and shredded them. Slicing strips from the fabric, she lay them down upon the floor, making colorful stripes, so that when he awoke, he would have not a single stitch of clothing that he could wear. They spelled out on the floor, in bold letters, “TYRANT.” 

Let him try to follow me in his skivvies if he like. That ought to slow him down, she thought to herself.  
Once again to the massive door she went. This time, bold and determined, she stepped forth without hesitation, her mother’s kerchief tied to her wrist, and her fabric satchel over her arm. She grabbed the lit torch by the door and into the darkness she trekked. She did not look back.

So it was, in 9:31 Dragon, Amalthea Brosca won the Great Provings; Bhelen Aeducan became king; and Charlotte Ilona Astyth Cadash, a young girl on the cusp of womanhood, with hair shorn and but a few coins in her possession, ran away from home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for all your comments. They literally are what keeps me motivated and helped me power through the rest of this chapter. It was really hard for me to write because it was a bit like breaking my own heart. I hope you enjoyed it. We are now officially halfway through the story.


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